


The Arrangement

by Z A Dusk (snakeandmoon)



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Blood, Crowley is Good at Being a Demon (Good Omens), Fluff and Angst, He/Him Pronouns For Aziraphale (Good Omens), He/Him Pronouns For Crowley (Good Omens), Historical, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, M/M, Medieval Period, Occult, Pining Crowley (Good Omens), Protective Crowley, The Arrangement (Good Omens), Touch-Starved Crowley (Good Omens), Violence but not graphic, but honestly only starved for the touch of one (1) angel, crowley loves aziraphale even if he doesn't know it yet, especially if someone hurts his angel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-25
Updated: 2020-05-25
Packaged: 2021-03-02 23:54:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,491
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24375358
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/snakeandmoon/pseuds/Z%20A%20Dusk
Summary: A human shouldn't be able to hurt an angel. So when Crowley finds Aziraphale injured, he certainly can't leave him like that. After all, having an angel in his debt is proper demonic work. At least, that's what Crowley tells himself.Aziraphale is honestly more concerned with his quota than his injuries.  When Crowley offers to help, an Arrangement is born.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 34
Kudos: 187
Collections: Hurt Aziraphale





	The Arrangement

**Author's Note:**

> This is a gift for [all-i-am-is-lunch](http://all-i-am-is-lunch.tumblr.com), who won my 500 follower gift fic giveaway! They suggested something historical with hurt/comfort and a little angst, with a happy ending. I hope you like it ♥
> 
> As always, this fic owes a lot to the incomparable beta skills of [Mira Woros](https://archiveofourown.org/users/miraworos)!

**Alkborough, England, 1020**

* * *

How could May possibly be -this- cold, Crowley grumbled to himself as he got up to throw another log on the fire. Satan, but the Kingdom of England was chilly and damp. Crowley flung himself onto the wooden settle and dragged an extra couple of furs over his lap. _Would be warmer if the angel was here_ , he thought, then quickly bit his blasphemous tongue as if he’d spoken the words out loud. 

He hadn’t seen Aziraphale since 537, when he'd floated the idea that perhaps as they were working hard in damp places only to cancel each other out, they could save themselves a lot of effort by staying home. That had gone over, well, like a lead balloon.

The time before that, they’d encountered each other in Rome, 41 AD. There’d been a copious amount of sweet mulsum flowing and they’d continued to drink long after the last oyster was devoured. The meal had ended on an odd note when Aziraphale, quite thoroughly tippled, had slurred something about Crowley’s hair and the colour of pomegranates. Followed by twirling one strand around a finger, before taking his leave abruptly and with not very much grace.

Crowley was slowly learning that if he could catch the angel off-guard, get him absorbed in introducing Crowley to oysters, or watching a mummers’ play in a rural English village, he was happy to lend Crowley his company. Mention work or their respective sides though, and he’d bristle like a cat, suddenly convinced Heaven had the right of everything. Of course he couldn’t resist poking at the angel’s defence of Heaven, from time to time. It was part of his job description, after all.

Crowley couldn’t help but notice the way the angel’s eyebrows drew together when witnessing the vagaries of God’s will and trying to convince Crowley it was all quite perfectly fine. Crowley had seen that expression again and again - while watching Adam and Eve battle the lion, standing before the Ark, watching the crucifixion. If Aziraphale truly believed the Ineffable Plan was worth defending, then Crowley was a horse’s rear end.

Try getting him to admit Heaven had anything wrong, though. So Crowley prodded a bit when he couldn’t help it, let himself enjoy the angel’s company, and never let the teasing go far enough to push him away. He told himself he didn’t want to drive away the only being remotely like him, but the truth, which he struggled to push down, was that he missed the angel when he hadn’t seen him for a few centuries.

So when his boring, lonely evening was suddenly interrupted by an unmistakable twang of angelic energy, like a harp being plucked under his ribs, Crowley was delighted. Of course he was. None of the other demons or angels occasionally stationed on earth wanted to spend time with him – and the feeling was entirely mutual. But Aziraphale was different. It was only natural that Crowley felt some inclination towards the only other immortal he actually got on with.

There was nothing more to it than that.

Shoving the furs out of the way, Crowley pulled on a heavy cloak and sauntered out into the village to locate Aziraphale. He had to keep tabs on his opposition, he told himself. It was his job.

He’d expected to find Aziraphale gently blessing peasants with better quality food, or perhaps simply partaking of the local beer, which Crowley had to admit wasn’t half bad. 

He certainly hadn’t expected to find the angel lying prone on the floor of the great hall in the village manor house, blood pooling on the packed earth around him.

“Angel?”

Crowley knelt beside Aziraphale so he could assess the situation. He appeared to have vomited a great quantity of blood. The angel was unconscious, and Crowley was suddenly furious that he’d been left on the dirt floor like a common cur. He undertook a careful examination with deft fingers, while scanning the area for occult influences. There. Around the edges of the room, like drifts of smoke after a fire burns out. A sense of power raised and focused. It was an age where the moon and stars seemed like magic, and people genuinely believed that eating the tongue of a lizard could cure a child of being shy. The most impressive “magic” Crowley had seen was arrogant young men chanting incantations in very badly butchered Latin. But this was something real.

A quick flash of demonic energy ensured that no-one would so much as glance sideways at the manor. Turning his focus back to the celestial being sprawled on the floor beside him, Crowley wondered what to do next. He certainly couldn’t leave Aziraphale where he was, but he wasn’t sure if it was safe to move him. Their bodies were far more resilient than actual human corporations, though, being designed to last for thousands of years. It would probably be alright. Probably.

Deciding to risk it, Crowley took off his own cloak and wrapped it round the angel, glad he’d also worn gloves so there were several layers of fabric between them. Ever since the Fall, his skin had been stupidly sensitive. Most touches felt like the brimstone that had scorched his flesh flaring back to life for a second round. But he should be fine with the layers between them. Carefully turning the angel over, Crowley slid one arm under his knees, tucked the other arm under his back, and lifted Aziraphale into his arms. Up close he could see clearly how pale and beautiful the angel’s hair was, like thistledown. Oh, in the name of Lucifer. What a ridiculous thing to notice at that moment. Annoyed at himself, Crowley removed the angel from the dark, smelly manor house and miracled them both into his own larger, cleaner, stone dwelling. 

Crowley had gotten in the habit of sleep sometime around the third century. Eschewing the plain, and deeply uncomfortable, carpets and basic mattresses of the era, he’d created a decently-sized wooden frame with a thick, comfortable mattress, and plenty of linen sheets and woven blankets. He placed Aziraphale carefully on the bed. 

“What happened to you?” He asked gruffly. 

“…. with things you don’t understand, you foolish man ….”

Aziraphale muttered as he woke up, raising his head as if to make an argument, then letting it fall back on the pillows, eyes fluttering closed. Seconds later, a fit of coughing racked his body. Crowley quickly pulled him into a sitting position, rubbing his back in what he hoped was a soothing fashion, miracling up a square of linen fabric for him to cough into, and watching in dismay as blood soaked the material in no time.

When the fit subsided, Aziraphale leaned forwards until his arms rested on his bent knees, slanting a quick and guilty-looking glance at the demon.

“Shouldn’t you have just let me die?”

Crowley drew in a sharp breath, unwilling to show how much that one hurt. Of course Aziraphale thought that. Crowley was just a demon, right? Evil was what he did.

“I didn’t mean that you _wanted_ to.”

The angel quickly clarified, and Crowley groaned. Was his expression really so transparent?

“I just meant, you know, Hell would expect you to ...”

“By that logic we should have been merrily smiting each other since Eden. Satan’s bones, m’not leaving you to die, Aziraphale. Tell me what happened.”

“Ah. Well. You see, I came here to bless a young man who seems quite inclined for the church. Unfortunately, it turns out he’s rather fond of occult practices, and has somehow constructed a ritual to bind ethereal beings to his will.”

Crowley felt his eyebrows shoot up. 

“And it worked? How is that even possible?”

Aziraphale shifted uncomfortably and Crowley wondered if he should help him move, but didn’t want to make the situation more awkward than it already was. When Aziraphale had re-settled himself in a better position, he gave Crowley a cool look.

“Clearly, it didn’t entirely work. I don’t appear to be under anybody’s spell. But as to how it worked at all, damn – blessed – if I know! I was just cautioning him not to meddle in things he hadn’t full knowledge of, and the next thing I know there’s a flash of fire, a feeling like I was kicked in the chest, and I’m waking up here.”

Crowley frowned. “I need to locate the thick-headed churl and find out what he did to you. I’ve warded the place, so you should be safe enough. Try not to die before I get back, alright?”

Aziraphale’s lips curved up in a slight smile.

“I shall do my best.”

With that he lay back down and closed his eyes, curling closer into the blankets. He looked smaller and paler than usual, and the sight made Crowley’s stomach bunch into a tight knot. 

Satan, he could get in so much trouble for this. But he couldn’t just leave the angel to perish. 

He’d be able to use this as a bribe later, he tried to convince himself. Saving an angel’s life, that had to curry some favour. Yes. It was a proper demonic activity.

That the thought of Aziraphale dying felt worse than the memory of seeing Heaven for the last time as he fell? Crowley refused to dwell on that.

Finding Aziraphale’s attacker wasn’t hard. Humans who meddled in the occult were easy to sense. The energy followed them around like a cloud of black smoke. Crowley quickly located the lout, downing a jug of ale in the local tavern. He wasted no time in grabbing the man by the back of his neck like a dog picking up a pup, and slamming him against the wooden bar. 

“You will tell me everything.”

It was hardly a temptation – there was no subtlety to it. It was a brutal demand. Crowley felt his demonic nature flaring in him like a torch, rage heating his limbs. How dare this meddling fool hurt his … the … angel. An angel. 

What followed was a barely-intelligible rambling about angels and summoning and God’s will. With a grunt of frustration, Crowley shook the youth and demanded an explanation for the angel-summoning ritual. 

The ritual was, as it turned out, rudimentary at best. It oughtn’t to have worked. Crowley’s hands tightened on the man’s neck.

“Talk me through it again. And don’t leave anything out.”

By the time the youth had finished, he was shaking with fear, and Crowley was vibrating with frustration. Setting the fellow down with no gentle touch, he snarled a warning not to meddle again, and stalked off towards the manor house.

Aziraphale was asleep when he returned. Crowley felt a strange pang as he stood by the bed, watching the angel doze. It wasn’t unlike the feeling he’d had at the Ark, seeing the people and wishing he could take them somewhere safe.

“Ah, hello.” Aziraphale opened his eyes and pulled himself to a sitting position. His eyes widened when he saw what Crowley was holding. “That’s not one of mine,” he said quickly as if Crowley had accused him of something.

“I figured that. The meddler told me he’d used it in the ritual, so I figured I’d better bring it here and dispose of it” Crowley held the long white feather between finger and thumb as if it might combust and burn them both. “He found it and thought it was a sign from God that the church was his calling or some such nonsense. Unfortunately, his older brother has been meddling in ghost-raising, and as sheer dumb luck would have it, they tried their ritual when you were in close enough proximity for it to affect you. You’d have opened your energy, so to speak, to seek out the boy, leaving a chink in your celestial armour. Wouldn’t have worked but for the fact that they had a literal piece of an angel,” he added, waving the feather with a grimace.

“Gabriel.”

Aziraphale said, in a glorious non-sequitur.

“What?”

“It’s his feather. The arrogant beast lets them drop when he visits earth. Thinks it bestows a blessing on the humans, or some such nonsense."

Crowley couldn't keep a smile from spreading at this knowledge. If the feather had let two inexperienced human boys hurt Aziraphale, what might it do to Gabriel? Perhaps he wouldn't burn it after all. Before he could follow that train of thought any further, Aziraphale spoke again.

"Did the boy … did he say when he procured the item?”

Aziraphale glanced around the room nervously, his fingers twisting in the blankets, as if expecting Gabriel to arrive at any moment.

“No, but Gabriel couldn’t get in here anyway. You don’t get kicked out of Heaven without developing a certain level of paranoia. I know how to hide myself. Why do you think I never invite you to my dwellings?”

Aziraphale shook his head as if to say he had no idea, then realisation seemed to dawn and his eyes went wide. “Because it’s far easier to hide yourself, than it is to hide an angel as well. I shouldn’t be here.” He scrambled to get up, the sudden movement bringing on another coughing fit, and another fountain of blood.

“Oh, don’t be ridiculous. You’re not going anywhere until we get you feeling perfectly angelic again. Now lie still.”

Aziraphale gave him a worried look, but complied. Crowley tried not to think too hard about how his demonic energy might feel as he used it to examine the angel, though it was hard to ignore Aziraphale’s sudden intake of breath. Concerned, Crowley pulled his energy back a bit, but soon came to his senses. It had to be done. And so, he pushed his demonic essence back into the angel. This time, Aziraphale gave a small shiver, a blush staining his cheeks. Crowley could have sworn his pupils were dilating, before Aziraphale swiftly shut his eyes. Crowley’s ability to sense desire was clearly being thrown off by being so close to an ethereal being. Aziraphale couldn’t possibly be enjoying this.

“Sorry,” Crowley mumbled, though whether he was sorry for how his energy felt, or sorry for how much he wanted Aziraphale to like it, he couldn't tell. “Looks like the clumsy oaf caused a sort of disruption in your essence. Like I said, only worked because your energy was already somewhat open. It’s like a thorn, is all. I could probably pull it out. Reckon it’ll take you a few days to get your strength back, mind.”

“Could you, please? I’d be very grateful.”

Crowley nodded and let a tendril of energy slide under Aziraphale’s ribs, seeking out the dark energy that had got buried right there, by his heart.

“Excuse me if it’s rude to ask, but how do you know what to do? Were you a healer before … before .. you know …”

“No.” Crowley couldn’t help laughing at the idea. “I don’t know to be honest. Just instinct, I suppose. The humans have a theory at the moment about like energy attracting like. Of course, they extrapolate it to mean they can stick a knife in a barn wall to represent a heifer’s teat, and thus steal milk. But there could be something to the attraction part. My energy can seek out other dark energy, like to like.”

Talking made it much easier. Talking, and keeping all his attention on what he was doing, rather than the intimacy of what he was doing. Crowley kept his gaze fixed on the wall behind the bed, grateful for the smoky quartz eyeglasses. Was Aziraphale really letting him reach into his core...? Well, it was that or wander round with a shard of occult energy buried inside him. Wasn’t that hard a choice to make.

Crowley was desperately curious to know what the angel’s energy felt like from the inside. After all, he told himself, how many people would ever get that chance? But he didn’t look, didn’t take the liberty. Just focused on finding what he needed to find, and extracting it as quickly as possible.

“There,” he said some minutes later. “All done, and not that bad in the end. You’re going to have to rest for a few days, though. I’ll find you an inn. Like I said, it’ll be harder for me to hide you here.”

If Aziraphale looked disappointed, well, that was just Crowley’s imagination, wasn’t it?

What wasn’t Crowley’s imagination, however, was how upset he looked at the mention of resting for a few days.

“I have to go, Crowley. I can’t just lie around. I’m sure you’ve done a perfectly good job, and I should be fine now.”

“Look, I’m hardly the Archangel Raphael. You’re stitched back together well enough, but my energy is still demonic. You need a few days to heal, and that’s the end of it.”

Aziraphale sat up, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed to plant his feet obstinately on the floor, straightening his clothes and quickly running a hand through his unruly curls.

“Did you not hear the part where I was here to carry out a blessing? You think Heaven will merely neglect to notice if I don’t do it?”

“A few days won’t hurt. Or just tell them.” Crowley shrugged.

Aziraphale laughed, a strange, brittle laugh, like sere leaves rattling in a winter wind. Crowley frowned. The angel had always tended to be fussy and anxious, but he was lively and stubborn with it. This was something different.

“Believe me, I’ve had enough strife from Gabriel lately. Too many miracles, too many people helped, too much rescuing the ‘unworthy humans’ from sickness or near-death.”

“Isn’t that … angelic?”

“One would think so. If I don’t meet my quota on time this month there will be consequences.”

He didn’t elaborate, and Crowley didn’t ask. It was clearly a private matter. But there was such fear behind the angel’s polite smile, that Crowley found himself biting back a sharp rattle of a hiss, wanting suddenly to protect Aziraphale.

“I’ll do it.”

“You’ll … do it?”

The angel’s brow furrowed in that way that purportedly meant ‘I don’t understand,’ but which they both knew meant ‘I’m unsure if I’m allowed to agree with this yet, so please persuade me more.’ 

“The blessing. I’ll do the blessing. Heaven don’t check up with you personally, unless you miss your target, right? So they’ll mark it done, you won’t get any strife, you’ll have time to heal, everybody’s happy.”

“But my dear fellow … I can’t let you take that risk. If someone were to find out …”

“No one has to know. C’mon angel. You’re in no fit state.”

Aziraphale looked at him for a long moment, then gave a tentative half-smile, and Crowley felt something warm and welcoming bloom in his chest.

“Very well. Thank you.”

It was only when Crowley was striding through the village, having settled Aziraphale in the local inn and miracling the surroundings to a more appropriate standard for the fussy angel, that he realised Aziraphale had clearly forgotten his assailant was the same boy he’d been meant to bless. A half-smile crooked across Crowley’s face as he reached the heavy wooden door of the manor house. This was going to be fun.

Crowley found the dunderheaded boy swigging ale by the fireside. The sight of him flooded Crowley’s veins with rage. Suddenly he wanted nothing more than to make him feel the fear Aziraphale must have felt as he lost control of his own corporation. With a snap of his fingers, Crowley shifted his form to include long fangs, three pairs of wings with spike-like black feathers, and two extra pairs of arms, the hands ending in long, grasping, scaled talons. Not as enjoyable as his favourite human-looking form, but dramatic enough to make the boy yelp with terror when Crowley materialised in front of him.

“How dare you meddle in occult forces you don't in the least understand, you mewling human??” he growled, his voice thick with menace. Before the lad could respond, Crowley let his energy crack into him like a whip. The boy slid from his seat, knees hitting the ground hard as terrible coughs shook his body, blood splattering on the floor. Crowley knelt beside him, yanking his head back by the hair, letting his talons graze the scalp hard enough to draw blood.

“Next time you seek to summon a being greater than yourself, you will get me, and I'll rip your lungs out and have done with it” he hissed. “Your only chance now to save your blackened soul is to conscript yourself to God. Else when you die, you'll be twisting in torment forever under my merciless claws.”

That Heaven was hardly any better than Hell was none of Crowley’s concern. The boy had been sent in the direction Aziraphale was told to send him. Heaven wouldn't give the angel any trouble. That was all Crowley cared about. 

“And if you ever touch him again, you prick, you won't live long enough to go into the church.” he threw over his shoulder as he stalked from the room, leaving the newly-blessed man trembling on the floor.

Apparently, seeing Aziraphale hurt brought out Crowley’s protective streak. Probably best not to tell the angel that. Crowley hardly liked admitting it to himself. Procuring some food and wine for them both, he made his way to the inn, and slipped into the angel’s room.

Celestial beings had no need to adhere to the practice of eating foods that supported the humours of the body, as the humans insisted one ought to do, but Aziraphale seemed to enjoy the progression from sugar coated ginger, to fruits and vegetables, to the heavier pork stew, finished with aged cheese and a good wine.

“That really was scrumptious. Thank you.”

He reached out to clasp Crowley’s hand, the contact unexpected and shockingly beautiful. Crowley felt a full body shiver go through him, and was quite certain Aziraphale must have seen it.

“My apologies …”

He made to withdraw his hand, but Crowley stopped him with a tightening of his own grip.

“No, don’t. I like it. Never had anyone touch my skin and it not hurt, before.”

“I’m sorry? It … hurts you, to be touched?”

Crowley gave what he hoped was a nonchalant shrug. “Ever since the fall. Side effect of being damned, I expect. Doesn’t hurt when you do it though. ‘S nice.”

Aziraphale was looking at him with a mix of pity and worry that Crowley couldn’t bear. Cross, he jerked his hand away and started busying himself clearing the supper dishes away.

“Crowley …”

“Don’t.” He said gruffly. “Don’t, angel.”

“Don’t what? No one should be in pain like that,” he said quietly, voice tense with worry. “Mightn’t I try and heal it, somehow?”

Crowley started to shake his head, no. He didn’t want any celestial being, let alone Aziraphale, feeling sorry for him. He wasn’t some lowly demon aching for a blessing from on high.

Yet he couldn’t help longing to be touched without it hurting. Oh bless it all, Crowley couldn’t tell that lie even to himself. He hardly cared that it hurt to be touched. It was an inconvenience, and nothing more. He wanted it to stop only because it was frustrating to be in agony every time some clumsy person brushed against him. And he feared what Hell would do if they ever found out and used it against him.

But none of that qualified as longing, and he knew it.

What he longed for, what he craved like the hoar-frosted earth craved the sun, was for Aziraphale to touch him again. He wanted with his whole being to feel once more that unique shiver engendered by the angel’s touch, as if he’d started a symphony on Crowley’s skin, that he alone knew how to conduct.

“If you want.” He said at last, in a tone that he hoped conveyed that he didn’t much care what the angel did either way.

Aziraphale covered Crowley’s hand with his own once more. His hand was warm, and the brush of his skin felt like the loveliest light pressure, like being held by a ray of sunlight. Crowley stared as silvery light spread out from Aziraphale’s hand, covering his own hand and wrist like cobwebs, vanishing into the sleeve of his tunic.

“Of course there’s no way to know how much it’s helped until next time someone touches you.”

“Mhm, and I usually let people touch me on pain of death, so. I guess we’ll find out eventually. Next time some oaf stumbles into me at a market.”

Aziraphale smiled and nodded, then drew his hand back. “There. Just applied a little light healing. Wouldn’t want to accidentally mark you as angel-touched. I daresay that would not be popular down below.”

“Thanks.”

There was a flame-flicker of silence, awkward and yet somehow burgeoning with something new.

“Even if it doesn’t work, it’s nice to know at least your touch doesn’t bring me out in deeply attractive red welts.”

“Well, I can always touch you. If you want me to.”

Aziraphale’s hand flew to his mouth as soon as the words were out. “I mean. I didn’t mean! It’s just, if you wanted...”

Crowley couldn’t help a smirk, which earned him a sharp swat to his upper arm. But then Aziraphale’s fingers were caressing his cheek slowly, as if to show him what it felt like to be touched without pain. He didn’t mean to lean into it. But it felt so deeply soothing and the angel was looking at him with such openness. 

He nuzzled the Principality’s palm, and was rewarded by Aziraphale leaning up to kiss his other cheek. It was slow and deliberate and far more sensual than a kiss on the cheek had any right to be, his fingers caressing the line of Crowley’s cheekbone on the opposite side as his lips pressed slowly against his skin, breathing softly against him. Crowley shivered, and something that had been trapped and in pain inside his heart gave a flutter of delight and was free.

Aziraphale drew back and looked at him searchingly, blue eyes honest and trusting.

“Thank you for taking care of that blessing. Perhaps we might come to a similar agreement again.”

For a second Crowley’s heart frosted back over, assuming the angel meant helping each other with duties. But then he felt the warmth of the angel’s palm pressed to his once more, before he raised Crowley’s hand to his lips and kissed the knuckles reverently, as if Crowley deserved to be cherished. When he smiled brightly, thumb still rubbing little circles against Crowley’s hand, it was impossible to keep from smiling back.

“Oh, yes,” Crowley leaned down to rest his forehead against Aziraphale’s, so that he could look into the … his ... angel’s eyes. “I’m quite certain we can come to an arrangement.”

**Author's Note:**

> Look, my techphobic ass couldn't get with how to do linked footnotes, but I do have some notes for you! And here they are:
> 
> It was surprisingly hard to find out where the medieval manors lived in eleventh century England! But general consensus seems to be that there was an established village with a manor house at Alkborough, so I went with that.
> 
> Apparently England was indeed called The Kingdom Of England in those days, or so wikipedia tells me.
> 
> Mulsum is a sweet wine, popular in Rome at the time Crowley and Aziraphale were there.
> 
> Although "tippled" means "drank alcohol" these days, as in "he tippled a bit too much at lunch", apparently in Medival times "tippled" meant "to be drunk", so that's how I've used it here.
> 
> Mummers' plays are folk plays, popular in Britain from at _least_ the twelfth century, so I took a little liberty and assumed they were popular before ;)
> 
> Yes, medieval people really did think evil-doers could stick a knife in a barn wall to steal milk!
> 
> Belief in the humours was certainly around in Medieval times, as far as I can tell. Eating to support the humours seems to show up in both Tudor times and ancient Rome, but for the purposes of this fic they were doing it in Medieval times too!
> 
> **\--------------------------------------------**
> 
> And that's it! Thanks for reading! Comments are fuel for hungry authors - I'd love to hear your thoughts!
> 
> I'm already working on my next fic! Meantime why not check out some of my other work. So, what are you in the mood for now?
> 
> Angst, so much pining, memory loss, evil!Gabriel, snake!Crowley, and a bond between an angel and a demon that's too dangerous to remember and too powerful to forget? You need [Ghost Love Score!](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21141407) (please note this is a WIP, and do heed the tags!)
> 
> Delicious pining with a happy ending, featuring an account of Crowley's fall and some true!form sex? Try [The Heart Asks Pleasure First](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23352145).
> 
> More true!form deliciousness, featuring a cosmic meet-cute between a star-creating Throne and a gentle Principality? Check out [Home](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22192903).
> 
> Sweet post-canon Tadfield adventure, featuring an ensemble cast, a little magical summoning, Tracy finding her place in the world, and Crowley being good with kids? Try [Darksome Night and Shining Moon](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22579987).
> 
> A little gentle emotional hurt/comfort, featuring a loving Aziraphale helping Crowley through his trauma from the burning bookshop, and guest appearances from Madam Tracy and Anathema? [In These Flames](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22623877) could be just right for you.
> 
> In the mood for something longer, featuring a long slow burn, stolen kisses, and so much angst and fluff and sweetness you might need to watch your blood sugar? Dive into [All The Seasons Of My Heart.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21640552)
> 
> Come say hi on [Tumblr](http://zadusk.tumblr.com) \- I'm always up for talking about Good Omens!


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